Messengers of Mankind

A Mind of Confusion (6)

Everything was a blur.

The continual ringing of something kept persisting against his eardrums. The steady and annoying beeping of machinery drilled itself softly into his mind. Someone won't stop screaming. Voices - murmurs, whispered, muttering - all around him, drowning his consciousness in a sea of silent chaos. Amongst all, his head hurt. Even through all the fuzziness and drowsiness, he could still feel the onslaught of dull pain that continually attacked the back of his head. The back of his head - of which was laid onto something soft and fluffy.

The place was warm, much to his surprise. Last time he remembered, there was a raging snowstorm that had chilled him to the bone. Yet, here, he could feel the soft cotton sheets against his bare skin, the warmth atmosphere that seemed to correspond to his body temperature. He was... inside, he realized with a start.

The light seemed much too artificial. Almost blinding to the eye, they casted an emotionless hue of white across the room. Dark shadows lurked where objects shielded them from the harsh light. As far as he could see, there were rows of what he assumed to be LED lights. Rows after rows, covering the entirety of the room and beyond.

Wait. His mind sharpened slightly, penetrating through the mist of drowsiness. Why was he in a... medical bay?

He tried to crane his head, only to find himself strapped down. What seemed like soft leather straps restrained his body to a spotless, warm hospital bed completely. Shunts and IVs were lodged in his pale skin, with fluids of different clarity and color pumping into his veins. He could even vaguely feel the assortments of cool liquid enter his bloodstream if he really tried.

Alarm, as well as confusion, were rising exponentially in amount at the back of his head. Where was this place? Wasn't everything destroyed by the apocalypse? Nothing had survived the genocidal chaos - so why had a place like this existed, spotless and seemingly advanced in technology? Moreover, why was he in here? The gears in his head struggled to turn, overwhelmed with puzzlement and fear.

"Subject seems to be conscious. Administration of Halothane through Subject's oxygen mask is recommended. Moderate dosage is ideal for the Subject." A voice, harsh and mechanical, sounded and reverberated throughout the empty room.

As if on cue, his consciousness faded back into the dark, colorless void.

"We appreciate your sacrifice, Government - appointed mechanic. Rest assured that your contribution - every bit of it - will not be in vain."

.....

They had called me Purpled.

Of course, everyone in the complex had a codename, but why has mine got to be 'Purpled'? It's honestly the dumbest one to ever exist.

Of course, only the Creators called me that. Everyone else called me Grayson.

I clutched my notebook tighter, speeding up my pace. They don't like it when I'm late, even when an excuse is present. Rushing through the maze-like corridors, I only stopped briefly to say hello to the various occupants of each room.

The one perching in the garden room would usually be Dave, codenamed Technoblade. I had heard that his obsession with potatoes was unhinged, and quite frankly unrivaled. Recently, he's been down - rumor has it that two of his friends were terminally ill, yet he was not allowed to visit them. On that thought, I hastily ripped out a blank page of my sketchbook, doodling a small smile on it. I slid the little note under that elegant and beautifully made wooden door. Knowing Dave and his knack of figuring things out, he'll probably know it's me sooner or later.